


First Times: Touch

by FromFanToStan



Series: First Times [4]
Category: One Direction (Band), zayn malik - Fandom
Genre: Canon Related, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 06:44:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18047537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromFanToStan/pseuds/FromFanToStan
Summary: Harry gets some of what he wants, but once is never enough.





	First Times: Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the First Times series. Just a fic--no reason to believe RL Zayn and Harry even knew the other was in the band. Really it's a miracle they knew each other's names.

Zayn was wide awake. He thought of the spark in Harry’s eyes, the sensuality in his voice; he wondered how an 18-year-old boy could be...yeah. Zayn was 19, and mostly what he knew about sex was getting off with a girl. He had learned, in sampling extensively from the banquet laid out before him as a member of One Direction, how to make a girl sigh and whine. He had learned what he liked. But he knew little of what he _might_ like, given the chance, nor what he might like to try. He looked at Harry and envied him his fearlessness, in sexual matters as in everything else, he figured. He had come to admire Harry and to want more than anything to protect him. He didn’t know when Harry had stopped being the posh little diva and had become everything he cherished, everything he wanted to be. 

At last,Zayn gave up on napping, something he did always when there was a break before a show. This had been an easy week, with only four shows and days off in between, so Harry’s challenge, to pull a girl together, came at a time when Zayn was at least somewhat free of the exhaustion he carried like a pall over his shoulders.

For a moment, he considered the girl that he and Harry would share. They talked a big game, the band members, about respecting women, but in fact only Liam and Louis even tried. Zayn loved his sisters, and he would cheerfully kill any man who treated one of them as he treated the interchangeable series of tits and pussies that passed through the beds of the single band members. The girls chose it, he supposed. They wanted to fuck someone famous, he told himself, and he and Harry and Niall wanted to get rid of some of the adrenaline from performing and some of the excess sexual energy of being teenage boys. It was a transaction, but Zayn had never had a particularly good head for business. He was tiring of it already. Harry seemed to love novelty above all else, and Zayn craved the familiar. 

He thought longingly of home and how Harry had in his way become home, the familiar smell of his hair and the long, awkward limbs that insinuated themselves into wherever Harry wanted them to go, whether into another boy’s lap or skipping across a stage, or thrusting his groin forward as if he were a bona fide rock star instead of the heartthrob of a boy band.

A boy band. Alone in his hotel bed, Zayn allowed himself to blush. He was ashamed of being in a boy band. He was ashamed of the screaming girls, the promos, the sugary lyrics that spoke of love when all any of them wanted from a "relationship" with the fans who adored them was sex. It wasn't right, but it was what everyone in the business did, he reasoned. He listened to Drake on his headphones, and he thought longingly of making music that actually represented what he felt and thought about.

Still, as well as he knew Harry’s body, as well as they all knew Harry’s body, he had never been in the room with him during sex, and he wanted to be. He sort of hoped that tonight would be as much about getting off with Harry as with a girl, but he thought probably Harry was looking for a little novelty, the way he always did. 

That night it was Harry, of course, who found a girl, a pretty short-haired blonde with beautiful half sleeves tattooed on her arms, fully revealed by a slinky tank top that showed her erect nipples. Her breasts were perfect, and Harry didn’t talk to her long before they were glancing over at him. He wasn’t looking, not really, but he still felt their gaze, could see Harry lean into her, whispering in her ear the way he did, making no doubt a lewd suggestion that would have gotten Zayn slapped had he tried it. A drink later, the two of them were taking Zayn’s hand and leading him from the club and into the cool night air. Harry must have texted Paul they were ready to go, because the car was there when they emerged from the side door, and Harry led the way into the back, sliding across the seat and then pulling the girl into his chest. He draped a hand over one perfect breast, looking up at Zayn as he ducked his head into the car. It didn’t matter that Harry was a year younger than he. He always felt like the younger boy when Harry looked like this, with his eyes full of promise and his lips, those pretty lips that Zayn coveted, parted and smirking slightly like he was about to say something filthy.

It was a shame, then, once they were in the hotel room and clothes discarded somehow, and he had mouthed the pretty girls’ nipples until she moaned, while Harry buried himself between her legs and made her writhe before pulling himself up and away, cock red and straining, that Zayn had been seized with shyness. He could only reach out a hand tentatively to Harry’s beautiful dick, could only bring himself to squeeze it gently, before he guided him back down to the girl helplessly, muttering that Harry should go first.

He might have said that he would come just from watching them, but the next morning, when he woke in his own room alone, he couldn’t remember. Best not to think of it, nor of the way Harry had looked fucking into the girl, his long, slim fingers holding her thighs open, nor of the way the girl had beckoned to him, inviting him into her mouth, nor of how he had the most intense orgasm of his life from listening to Harry Styles moan.

***

Harry got so frustrated with Zayn, for lots of reasons. One was the way Zayn could just sit there, looking all broody and beautiful, and the rest of them would just work around him. He was late; they covered for him. He cheated; they lied for him. He got high; they said he was tired. Harry always felt like he was working at this constant, intense level, while Zayn just chilled.

It didn’t change his attraction. If anything, it made it worse. He wanted what Zayn had, that ability to be calm in the midst of the chaos that surrounded them constantly, to be self-contained in the sea of demands. He said something to Zayn about it, more like a cranky question: “How is it you just go right on being you, doing what you want and avoiding what you don’t, while the rest of us are killing ourselves to make everyone happy?”

Zayn looked at him seriously, in that heart-melting way he had of taking even Harry’s worst jokes and most offhand comments as something worth consideration. “Maybe a better question, Haz, is why are you killing yourself to make everyone happy? Also, stop being such a white boy. The minute I open my mouth, I’m going to get criticized, so I may as well please myself, right.”

Huh. He had a point, two points even. Harry started watching Zayn more carefully after that. He watched how calm and centered he stayed in interviews, how he rarely if ever volunteered to speak for the band and took his time answering questions specifically directed at him. Even then, his answers tended to be short and to the point. It was the rare interviewer that got more than a couple of sentences at a time from him.

Watching Zayn in interviews meant noticing his mouth, and noticing his mouth made Harry feel dizzy. Harry knew that his own eyes and mouth--besides the HAIR that nobody could shut up about--were his best features, and once when they had been doing a radio interview in Manchester he got distracted thinking about how pretty their lips would look, his and Zayn's, smashed together. Right as he had that thought, Zayn laughed at something Harry didn’t catch, and his tongue protruded from between his teeth adorably, and then Harry thought about their tongues tangling. Harry didn't know how he was expected to pay attention with Zayn just sitting there, being all _Zayn_.

Harry admired Zayn. He thought he could teach him things about Life and Being Zen, but also sexy things. He still was getting a lot of blow jobs and not having really interesting sex that often.

Zayn being older and more experienced meant that the night he and Zayn had shared a girl, Harry had been hoping it would be Harry and Zayn mostly. Zayn seemed open to whatever came his way, obviously. He just had to find the right girl, one who might like watching two pretty boys kissing. This was definitely something Harry wanted with Zayn, kissing. Among other things, of course.

That night at the club, he had his eye out for someone who looked a bit kinky, whatever that looked like, and when he noticed a heavily-tattooed, short-haired blonde girl, he thought probably the tattoos were a good sign. They were for him at least. Zayn liked blondes, and she wore a light, clingy tank top that showed her nipples, which Harry loved. She looked like she didn’t give a fuck; she also didn’t look like she’d be impressed by someone famous for being in a boy band.

Turned out that it was enough being a pretty boy. He walked up to her at the bar, because he would walk up to anyone after a few drinks, and waited patiently until she stopped talking to her friend. After he had introduced himself and suffered a few minutes of stilted conversation, he asked, “Do you even know who I am?”

“You said your name was Harry, right? You’re cute.”

Harry had to laugh at that one. They worried sometimes about girls violating the NDAs or about their nighttime habits being picked up more often by the tabloids, but tonight at least they were safe, maybe.

“What about that boy over there,” he gestured to where Zayn was sitting in a booth, staring into the middle distance and looking bored.

“The dark-haired one with the pretty mouth? He’s _gorgeous_.”

Harry might have been offended, but he felt the same, so instead he just said, “Yeah, he’s got a pretty mouth on him, doesn’t he? So do you. Seems like we should get all the pretty mouths together.” 

When they finished their drinks and walked over to Zayn, when Harry had whispered in his ear, “She’s the one,” he thought for sure that he was about to have his first real sex with a boy. _Finally_.

Instead, he got to see Zayn naked, which was rare and always good, and he got to listen to Zayn come, which was the most erotic set of sounds he’d heard in his young life, and Zayn had looked at him almost shyly, touched his cock, and then had guided him into the girl, murmuring, “You first, Haz. Maybe I’ll get myself off watching you.” Harry had wanted to protest, no, don’t get off by yourself, let me get you off at least, but by then he was half buried in the pretty blonde’s wet pussy, and his age and general horniness took over.

It turned out that he had picked well, and the girl was kinky enough to turn her head toward Zayn and gesture for his cock, opening her mouth wide and sticking out her tongue. Zayn held the headboard with one hand and his cock with the other, and Harry pushed himself more upright, wrapped the girl’s legs around his waist, and feasted on the sight of Zayn’s dick sinking into and emerging from the girl’s pretty lips. Zayn was pretty big, almost Harry’s size, but the girl took most of it.

It was exciting. Harry could tell that it excited the girl, and it excited Zayn, but Zayn never turned toward him again after that brief look and touch. When Zayn came, Harry came too, right after him. It usually wiped him out, but he felt bad that night for the girl and so he fingered her clit until she came seconds later. They all collapsed in a heap, laughing a little. Nobody kissed anybody. Maybe this was normal in three ways; it was Harry’s first. 

 

That was it. The girl left. Zayn said, “So yeah, that was something. I’m wiped out, gonna go sleep,” and then he dressed quickly and left, and Harry was no closer to having Zayn, actually having him, than he had been when he had breathed in his ear on the bus and said, “Let’s pull together tonight. Wanna share?” The next morning it was as though nothing had ever happened.

They were at the start of the tour then, though. There would be so many nights. Harry was going to kiss Zayn at the very least. It might as well already be happening, because what Harry wanted he figured out a way to get. Well. Most of the time. He had hoped Taylor would gaze at him adoringly while she planned a collab for the two of them and left red lipstick on his dick, but that hadn’t happened. They barely got off at all. Still. As a rule, Harry got what he wanted, and he wanted Zayn.

Harry was on a campaign, like Alexander conquering Persia, and just as sure of his ultimate success. Zayn didn’t have a chance. Harry was the one who wanted to please people, wasn’t he, and it was just a matter of understanding perfectly what pleased Zayn. Then he would give it to him. Easy.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's generally considered canon that Harry and Zayn pulled together--I know, without talking or being friends or anything--and I like to think they had ulterior motives.


End file.
